There was movement across the lobby, and the door that led to the guest rooms opened. Another man walked in, letting the door slide shut behind him. He was taller and much stockier than Oliver. There was none of the young man’s insouciance about him, and he moved with a swift, strong, feral grace.
Scot stared across at this newcomer. They’d only just left the dining room, with no sign of the chef, or any other staff. If this were the same man, he must have moved around the building from another direction, to arrive here at the same time.
“This is Vincent,” Oliver said quietly. “Of course.” His gaze flickered between Scot and Jerry, and stayed there. He grinned, mischief back in his expression. “You wanted to praise him for his skills, didn’t you? His culinary skills?”
Jerry flushed, as if he knew he was being teased, maybe tested. Scot didn’t turn to help him out, because he was staring, temporarily speechless, at the man in front of them.
He was spectacular! Where Oliver had pretty, youthful looks, Vincent was most definitely a man, dark-haired with rugged, handsome features. He looked like a Native American, his face long and his cheekbones high, with a straight nose and bright, dark eyes. His shoulders and torso were broad, his skin dusky, and he wore his hair long, drawn back severely from his forehead and caught in a band at the back of his neck. It shone with a purple-black color, and his eyes reflected the same richness. He was dressed in a thin, pale-colored tunic top and loose pants, but under that, Scot saw the thick muscles of his shoulders and the tight definition of his chest. Some kind of serious working-out was needed to keep that kind of physique. He stood easily, his legs slightly apart, his hands at his sides. His feet were also bare.
Scot had never really been attracted to such an athletic look, but he felt lust stir instinctively in the pit of his stomach. Beside him, Jerry gave a soft sigh and tightened his grip on Scot’s arm. Scot resisted the urge to pull his arm away. He knew immediately, without knowing exactly how, that Jerry was seriously turned on by this man.
Oliver coughed again, breaking the silence. One of the candles behind the desk sputtered and went out, casting further darkness over the reception area. He pushed the holder out of the way and hitched himself up onto the front of the counter, perching there and swinging his slim, barely tanned legs against the wooden front. He stared over at the man called Vincent, who gazed back placidly. “Take the bags down to Number 6 for Mr. Harrison, will you, Vincent?”
Jerry frowned. “I didn’t tell you my name yet, did I?”
Oliver shrugged. His eyes glimmered in that sultry way they had. He leaned forward, his hands spread out on his thighs. “I don’t remember. Perhaps your… companion did. I don’t see that it matters, do you?”
Scot glanced at Jerry. He looked confused, and didn’t seem in any state to argue. Vincent moved in front of them both and bent slightly, picking up their bags as if they weighed nothing. His smell teased at Scot’s nostrils. Skin and sweat, of course, as he’d expect in this sweltering weather, and also some memory of the supper food—but an underlying muskiness as well. It made his head swim all over again.
Jerry must have smelled it as well, because the sound that came from under his breath was more like a moan. “Do you work for Maxwell’s as well, Vincent?” he said weakly. “Are you and Oliver—?”
Scot felt hot with embarrassment. He jabbed Jerry in the ribs and his boyfriend shut his mouth abruptly. Scot realized they had no knowledge of these men at all. No notion of what kind of people they were, what had brought them to the motel, where they lived before, or what sense of humor they had. Let alone what relationship they may have together. What the hell was Jerry playing at?
But Vincent seemed unconcerned at Jerry’s inquisitiveness. “I work here as well,” he said, nodding. “For Maxwell’s. Of course.” His voice was deeper than Oliver’s, and with a slow lilt that seemed to match the cadence of his breath. It was a drawl, and very seductive. Scot felt Jerry shiver beside him, and wondered if Vincent realized quite how much he was affecting them both.
“I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
“No problem. Oliver and I are co-workers.” There was a flicker of amusement in Vincent’s eyes. “We work together.”
He moved behind the desk and paused at Oliver’s back, resting one of the bags on the edge of the counter. Scot’s gaze followed them both, fascinated despite himself. He saw Vincent’s face over Oliver’s shoulder—the difference in the two men’s heights allowed it—and he watched as Vincent’s left hand rested gently at Oliver’s hip. Vincent’s fingers teased gently under the fabric of Oliver’s shirt, tugging it away from his skin. The buttons peeled gently open, as if they just tired of their job, and the shirt fell open again. Soft, irregular light dappled across Oliver’s bare chest. Vincent’s right hand couldn’t be seen, as it was entirely behind the blond’s back.
Oliver leaned his head slightly to the side, baring his neck away from where the other man stood. Vincent dipped his head slightly, planting his lips at Oliver’s exposed neck. And he nipped at the pulse there.
Oliver whimpered. It was a soft, breathy sound, like a trapped animal. Scot stared with shock at the blatantly sexual caress. Jerry let out another cry, this time fully audible.
A hiss came from one of the other candles on the wall, and the flame flared up. It threw long, dark shadows across the room. The planes of Vincent’s face were accentuated: the paleness of Oliver’s thighs shone more brightly in contrast to the darkness.
Scot stared into Oliver’s face, meeting the young man’s gaze. It was calm and steady, but the pupils of his eyes were dilated. And as Scot watched, he saw gentle movement around the waist of Oliver’s shorts, as if the back of them was being tugged down: as if there was something being slipped inside. He thought it was probably Vincent’s other hand. He could see more of Oliver’s nude hip now—more of his pale, young skin.
Oliver sucked in a breath, his eyes still holding Scot’s gaze. Another slight smile teased at his lips. The tip of his tongue appeared suddenly, rubbing quickly across the pink flesh of his mouth, then darted back in. His head fell back a little, and bobbed gently as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer’s string.
“Shit.” Jerry gasped, his voice hoarse. He slipped his hand off Scot’s arm. Scot couldn’t fail to see it slide down the front of Jerry’s body, and he marveled that Jerry would touch himself in front of others. His own cock ached, pressing against the front of his jeans, but he didn’t dare reach to adjust it.
Oliver apparently had no such inhibitions. As the movement in his shorts became more pronounced, his hand slipped into his lap, resting on the bulge that anyone could now see under the denim. He sighed again softly, biting at his lower lip as if something were nagging at him. And then, in front of the two spectators, sitting as he was on the desk with Vincent’s hand down his shorts and obviously up against his ass, he started to rub at his arousal.
Scot felt cold shock wash over him. What the hell was going on? As he turned his head, looking to Jerry for support, he found Jerry staring straight ahead, entranced by the erotic show. And, glancing back, Scot saw Vincent staring just as fixedly at Jerry.
The attraction was obviously mutual.
Scot gave the smallest, involuntary sound of protest. He realized he was no longer watching Oliver’s masturbation, but the man behind him: the man who had captured the attention and desire of Scot’s lover. Watching Vincent, tall, silent, and seemingly calm, even as his shoulder rocked gently and rhythmically and his upper arm muscles flexed, Scot knew without a doubt that he was fingering Oliver.
What the fuck?
Oliver was panting softly now, but fast. His eyes were unfocused. He slipped the buttons of his shorts and his hand dove inside, clutching the shape that strained the fabric at the crotch, his fiercely erect cock. Scot could see the shaft of darker flesh slipping through Oliver’s fist, the top of it glistening with drops of slick pre-come. Oliver pumped it roughly, licking his already moist lips. He leaned forward again, allowing Vincent more room behind him. His hips thrust gently in counterpoint to the rocking hand that was now so obviously up his ass and probing for his sweet spot. Scot watched him turn his misted gaze toward Jerry, and smile at him. Looking back at Scot, he opened his soft, lush mouth, as if to speak.
And then a bell rang.
Clare London, Author 